Sam Silva

 

 

 

Children of a Different Yule

 

 

In patient dim foreboding does the poor man tremble.

There was an Autumn of the heart which lasted years!

Congested yawns and tired breathing

...the destiny of pawns

among those diaries of uninspired tears.

 

Call it the love of the wicked

that a poor man does not feel

while he feels instead

the fact that Autumn rains

upon the ache and numbness

of old arthritic pains

...the difference between

the living and the dead...

 

...even so!,

the word upon the soul

is dry, indifferent, cold.

Huddling-in from wind and mold

and beaten down

by all of the brats of power

just to get this heart of coal

to learn the wonders of decadence

and its desire.

 

Desire among the fools...but wait.

He finally lights the millionth cigarette

or some such smoky

focuser of fate

and all of the tired tears

are frozen in a shout...

 

...and this strange and freezing fire

transforms the Autumn rains to snow

...magical snow!...covering

the city and its state.

 

A fire colder than the cold!

Someone wanted such a thing

but what is it

...this craven mantel,

this coward's blade,

this evil sorcerer's ring

which the elevated heart could never know..?

 

...call it "hate!"

The word you put there!

When the light of the world

went out...and Autumn rain

was finally turned to snow.

 

 

 

Sam Silva © 2008

 

Waking Up to Haiti

 

 

Those lean dark figures crushed to bone

by seismic clouds of dust

made out of stone

and art and rust

and anguish

strained from anguish

of a somewhat lesser kind.

 

"The mercy of my credit card..."

this drop of blood intoned

...and God said "in a pig's ass!

do I know you

...I was never known."

 

So I fatten up my different kind of corpse

and weep

and watch TV

 

...and sex is a means

to go to sleep

without that nightmare of bad dreams

which constitutes a literal Hell

for those more physically inclined

to live eternally...

 

 

 

 

Sam Silva © 2008